I get the experience there is a small typewriter resurgence. It's not that I am a human currently being born in relatively tiny situation on the edge of the Space Age in a entire world collapsing into chaos, considerably from it, I am the Space Age, I am chaos. And the world is but a wonderful concept resting like dew on the flowers of nothingness. I at times speculate whether or not I am now like those people today who rave about steam locomotives or gather previous toffee tins (some beautiful outdated typewriter ribbon tins). That was the same get together wherever a Hell's Angel who was scared to choose my voodoo doll in his hand arrived again from the rest room and explained: 'All I can imagine of is a substantial green egg.' I thought he was tripping, he'd certainly been using tobacco like most of us, till I went to the toilet, a mild green 1, and recognized that with the seat up the shadows towards the address gave the oval hole in the center a 3-dimensional impact like you would put it on with Photoshop.

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